White Hunters Never Die
by Tex-chan
Summary: Sometimes, life doesn't go as you had planned, especially when you end up living through your night job. But, maybe, living isn't so bad, as long as you do it together.


_**Summary:** Sometimes, life doesn't go as you planned, especially when you end up living through your "night job". But, maybe, living isn't so bad, as long as you do it together._

_**Author's Notes:** Another little ficlet response to a writing challenge. The challenge: "Yohji" and "Vitamins"._

_This was my second response to the above challenge, which I wrote because I was never satisfied with the first one. _

_I also hated the way Gluhen ended. In my mind, the boys will always be together, in one way or another._

_**Warnings: **Language_

_**Legal Stuff:** As always, this story is intended to express one fan's genuine appreciation of Weiss Kreuz and its characters. It is just for fun and not for profit. If you have any rights in the anime described here and find the posting of this fanfiction offensive or harmful, please contact me, and I will be happy to remove it._

**White Hunters Never Die**

Yohji groaned as he rolled over and turned off his alarm clock. He lay on his back for a few moments, staring at the ceiling and thinking about how much he wanted a cigarette as he took stock of the aches and pains running through his body. Maybe it was his imagination, but there seemed to be a lot more of them than he was used to. He felt old wounds aching, right down to his bones, as well as the throbbing of a few newer bruises. His muscles felt tight and sore, as if they had been pulled too taught and, then, shoved back into their proper places. All in all, he couldn't find one thing on his body that didn't ache or throb, and his mind told him, in no uncertain terms, it was going to take quite a bit of time to get moving tonight.

Not that that was anything unusual. Over the past few years, this routine had become normal -- to the point where Yohji had to admit he wasn't getting any younger. As always, he couldn't help wondering how long he was going to be able to remain in this game, especially with that little voice in the back of his head, whispering that he had already overstayed his welcome in the business.

It wasn't like he had chosen this career. It had found him -- sort of -- and he had just gone along for the ride. Was it his fault the ride had lasted longer than expected? He had expected to die young. You know, leave a good looking corpse and all that crap. Who would have thought he would still be kicking around and doing the assassin gig now, at his age?

Yohji sighed, rubbing his hands over his face and head. He couldn't help flinching when he found nothing but soft, supple skin where his hair should have been. That was one thing he didn't think he'd ever get used to -- being bald. It sucked. A lot. He had fought it, kicking and screaming, all the way -- Rogaine, Propecia, herbal remedies, acupuncture, hair plugs. You name it, and he had tried it. In the end, nothing had worked. His hair had continued to fall out until, finally, he had said "the hell with it" and shaved off what was left.

He grimaced as he remembered Aya calmly commenting that it was the price for all the womanizing, boozing, and smoking he had done in his youth. Damn bastard. That was easy for him to say. Aya had a full head of hair, even now, and Yohji hated him for it.

Speaking of Aya …

Yohji groaned again -- a soft sound that was lost amid the creaking and squeaking of his bedsprings as he dragged himself into a sitting position. If he didn't get moving soon, they would be late for their "appointment" this evening, and he would have his hands full with more pissy-bastard furor than he cared to think about. Yohji knew he couldn't deal with that. Not tonight. Maybe not any night. They had been together a lot of years, but he hadn't ever gotten comfortable with the pissy side of Aya's personality. He had learned to deal with it, but Yohji figured there were some things even Time couldn't smooth over.

The floor's hard tile was cold under his bare skin, and Yohji shivered, feeling the chill spread itself through his body, as if it had crawled in from the bottoms of his feet. Yet another thing he hated about getting old -- being cold all the time. He used to love the cold, and could remember heading out in a t-shirt in almost any kind of weather. Those days were long gone. Now, he wore long-sleeves all the time, and his closet was full of turtleneck sweaters -- his "uniform" of choice these days.

Yohji paused in front of his closet, shifting his weight from one foot to the other in an attempt to minimize the floor's chill. He tossed his pajamas onto the nearby dresser, lamenting the fact that their new living situation had forced him to give up sleeping in the raw. The pajamas were flannel, so they were warm -- a plus. But, they itched like crazy -- a definite minus. He still hadn't gotten used to the confining feeling of all that material, and he figured he probably never would. Old habits died hard, after all.

Yohji gave his wardrobe a few moments' attention before pulling a black turtleneck and a pair of black pants from the closet's darkened depths. It was comforting that some things hadn't changed -- black clothes for a white hunter of the night. Talk about old habits dying hard -- or not dying at all, in this case. Still, he kind of missed all the leather. Especially the long trench. Damn, but he had loved that coat, and he had looked good in leather, back in the day.

"Enough reminiscing," Yohji muttered, almost under his breath.

The words were lost amid the soft swish of material as he pulled on his turtleneck and pants and, then, turned to rummage through a nearby drawer for a pair of black socks. He crossed the room and retrieved a pair of boots before returning to sit on the edge of his bed. Time was when he would have pulled on the socks and boots standing right there, balanced on one foot and, then, the other. But, those days were gone, too. He had a bad back now -- the lingering after-effects of a two-story fall several years ago -- so he had to make do with putting on his socks and shoes from a sitting position. Yohji had figured it was a small price to pay, considering he had walked away from the incident with no other serious injuries. Plus, he had always believed coming home alive was all that mattered. He still believed that. Still, on nights like tonight, when his mind was overflowing with memories of his misspent youth and he couldn't help regretting the things he had lost, walking away alive almost didn't seem like enough. Somewhere in his mind, Yohji knew that was a damn ungrateful attitude, considering he had managed to stay alive all these years, in spite of his nighttime occupation. But, right now, he didn't care. He more than didn't care. He was pissed and almost happy to have the ungrateful thoughts whispering around in the back of his mind. Maybe they were a sign he wasn't ready to give up, just yet.

Whatever.

Yohji dismissed the run-away musings with a shrug of his shoulders as he stood up and crossed the room, coming to his bathroom and flipping on the light as he entered and moved to the sink. He ran some water from the tap, waiting until it was warm before splashing it over his face. Maybe that would be enough to dispel the memories and regrets that seemed intent on dogging him tonight. All the while, he told himself not to look at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Tonight, it would only lead to more regrets and bad memories. Yohji knew that, and, yet, when he reached for the towel, his gaze traveled up, as if drawn there by a force beyond his control.

Who the hell was that old man staring back at him? Yohji knew it was his own reflection, but he was always surprised at seeing this face, still unfamiliar after all these years, looking at him out of the mirror. The bathroom light bounced off of his bald head, giving it a faint sheen. Deep wrinkles creased his brow, and the harsh fluorescent lighting seemed to deepen the dark circles and bags under his eyes, giving his face a tired, drooping appearance. The crow's feet around his eyes had deepened over the years, as had the laugh lines around his mouth. Yohji figured that was what he got for spending most of his life hiding from the world behind the façade of a joking playboy. His eyes were the same deep emerald green that had always driven the ladies wild. They seemed the only thing in his face that Time had left untouched, although, he knew, if you looked closely enough, you could see all the sorrows and regrets the years had piled on. Still, for his age, Yohji figured he hadn't fared too badly. At least, he figured that on a good day. On nights like this, he just felt damn old. He still had all his own teeth; that had to be a plus, didn't it?

"You're still not ready?"

Yohji jumped at the sound of Aya's voice. He tore his gaze away from his own face to find Aya leaning against one side of the doorjamb behind him, staring at him through their shared reflections in the mirror.

One quick glance told Yohji Aya had, probably, been dressed and ready to go for hours. He wore clothing similar to Yohji's -- black sweater, black pants, black boots. The dark colors gave Aya's already pale complexion an almost unearthly appearance. Anyone else would have looked washed out, but, somehow, it all worked for Aya, making him seem mysterious and untouchable instead of unattractive and dowdy. He carried a walking stick, which housed his current weapon of choice -- a slim, European-style rapier. He had been forced to replace the heavier Japanese sword a few years ago, after a shoulder injury had left him unable to wield it as effectively. As he spoke, he twirled the cane through the air -- an unconscious, absent-minded gesture that belied the nervousness hidden beneath his calm exterior.

Yohji stared back at Aya, saying nothing, until Aya shrugged a little and looked away, a slight blush crossing his face. Even after all these years, that kind of thing made Aya uncomfortable. Yet one more thing that hadn't changed between them. Yohji couldn't help but wonder what Aya was thinking, but the younger man's expression was, as always, nearly unfathomable. There was disapproval over Yohji's dawdling, irritation over being put off schedule for the evening, and, maybe, a touch of worry over the oddly pensive mood he had read in Yohji's posture and facial expression. And, if Yohji had looked closely enough, he might have seen a hint of teasing fondness in Aya's eyes. Tonight, though, Yohji wasn't inclined to look any farther. He was in a bad mood. He was pissed over getting old. And he wanted to feel negative and angry without letting Aya talk him out of it.

Yohji frowned at his partner. The years had left Aya almost untouched. Where middle and old age had graced Yohji with a bit of a pot belly and baldness, Aya was still lean -- mostly hard muscle, instead of unwanted flab -- and he had all his hair. Sure, it was white now, instead of red, but it was all there. In Yohji's mind, that was what counted. Aya's face, too, remained almost unlined. The lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened with age, but, even so, they were hardly noticeable until you looked at him up close. Not that Aya would ever let anyone get that close to him. Yohji had believed Aya would lighten up, once Takatori was dead and once his sister had awakened and resumed her place in the world. Once he had fulfilled his vow of vengeance, Yohji had thought, maybe, Aya would let himself live. Maybe, he would finally realize he was worthy of hope and love and all those other things the rest of the world took for granted. But, it hadn't happened. Takatori had been gone for decades now, and Aya-chan had gone on to live her own life, complete with a husband, kids, and, now, grandkids. And, yet, Aya had remained unchanged -- holding himself away from the rest of the world, refusing to believe he deserved anything more than a life of killing and heartache, refusing to let anyone in. As close as they were, Yohji knew that was true. In many ways, Aya hadn't even let him in -- not all the way.

Suddenly, Yohji couldn't muster up the energy to be irritated with Aya. The whole thing weighed down on him, intensifying his dark mood and making him feel old and tired. So, he was bald. It wasn't like having hair had helped Aya have a happy life. In his heart, he knew he wasn't any better off than Aya; it wasn't like he had found the love and acceptance he had lost when Asuka had died. He hadn't ever found anyone to take her place. But, he had tried, at least. You couldn't say he hadn't given it his best effort, even when his mind and heart had whispered to him that it was no use. And, he had at least had a chance at knowing what that felt like -- to love and be loved, to be accepted for what he was, to feel safe because there was one person out there who would always try to shelter him from life's storms. Aya hadn't ever had that. Yohji figured that counted for a lot more than no hair, a pot belly, and a few extra wrinkles.

Yohji looked into the mirror, once again meeting Aya's reflected gaze. Aya gave him one of those eyebrows-raised, questioning expressions that seemed to sum up everything in one fell swoop -- he wanted to know what was wrong; he wanted Yohji to hurry; and he thought Yohji had been woolgathering for too long.

Yohji shrugged in response and reached for his bottle of moisturizer. In his younger days, he had hidden his skin care habits from the rest of the team. Maybe he had thought they would make fun of him … which, they would have. Especially Ken. Ken would've gotten a huge kick out of it. Or, maybe it was just because it was almost impossible to have secrets when you were Weiss. Whatever the reason, Yohji had kept his habits hidden for many years. Now, though, he didn't much care. He figured he was too old for all that crap. If he wanted to use moisturizer, he damn well would, and that was that. He had earned it, after all. Staying alive as Weiss all these years had to give him some perks in life, didn't it?

"What?" Yohji asked, his tone turning belligerent and challenging in response to the ghost of a grin he saw on Aya's face.

Aya shook his head. "Nothing. I was just thinking about how Ken would've gotten a big laugh, watching you primp like this."

His tone was light and teasing, but it dropped off at the end, sounding more melancholy than anything else. They didn't talk much about the past. When Weiss had broken up, somehow, it had seemed right that he and Aya would stay together. Yohji wasn't sure why it seemed right, but it did. Omi had gone on to another position within Kritiker, and their contacts within the organization kept them informed on Omi's well-being, despite the fact they had no actual contact with him. But, Ken had disappeared -- almost like he had dropped off the face of the earth. It wasn't like anyone had expected him to keep in touch, but Yohji wondered, from time to time, what had happened to him. Was he safe? Had he gone on to live a quiet life with a good woman? Or, had his past caught up with him, in the end? Yohji knew Aya wondered the same thing. Whenever Ken's name came up, Aya seemed to withdraw just a little more, get a little more quiet than usual. Yohji could read the regret on Aya's face, even now -- regret over losing someone who had been important in his life, regret over not knowing. That was probably the worst part of it -- not knowing what had happened -- because for every good future their minds spun out for Ken, a dozen bad ones cropped up to torture them.

Yohji smiled and chuckled -- low and throaty, almost under his breath. "Yeah, he never woulda let me hear the end of it, would he?"

"Yeah," Aya replied, his teasing tone from before replaced with a note of regret and sadness.

He paused for a couple of seconds, staring off into space -- lost in his own thoughts -- before shrugging, as if he could shake off old memories with that simple, physical gesture.

"Whatever. You're pretty enough. Just put on your wig, and let's go already," Aya said, his voice taking on the brisk, matter-of-fact tone it always did when the conversation turned to Ken. It was his way of telling Yohji he didn't want to talk about it any more; he didn't want to think about it any more, and he didn't want to remember.

Yohji glared back at Aya as he reached for his hairpiece, which rested on a Styrofoam head near the sink. He pulled it into place, attaching it to his scalp with special adhesive. He grinned at his reflection, already feeling a hundred times better now that he had hair.

"You damn heathen," Yohji said, "What's wrong with you? This isn't a wig. It's a state-of-the-art Hair Replacement System."

Aya rolled his eyes toward the ceiling as he replied, "Right. If it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it's probably a wig. And you know it."

"Asshole," Yohji grumbled.

Aya shrugged, as if he couldn't care less what Yohji thought of him. But, Yohji could see the ghost of a smile that curved across Aya's lips, telling him their little exchange had served its purpose.

"Come on," Aya said, turning away from the bathroom, "We're late already. If we don't hurry, we won't make it before moonrise, and there's a full moon tonight. Not exactly ideal for what we have planned."

"Yeah, yeah," Yohji muttered, reaching over to rummage through the medicine cabinet.

He pulled out a small bottle of pills and shook one out into the palm of his hand as he continued, "Just let me take my vitamins. I've got a hot date later tonight."

He hadn't thought his voice was loud enough to carry across the room, and he was surprised when he heard Aya reply, "This is a retirement home. Not a singles' club."

Yohji quickly swallowed the pill, grimacing as he did so, and gave his reflection one last, approving glance before leaving the bathroom. On his way out the door, Yohji paused long enough to grab his watch off of the dresser, strapping it on as he joined Aya outside in the hall.

"Why do we live here, anyhow?" Yohji asked. He gave Aya's walking cane a significant look and said, "It's not like we're retired."

Aya just shrugged and turned away, leading the way down the hall and toward the elevators. Yohji could do nothing but follow. He had his suspicions that Aya lived here because it was cheap, and some twisted part of Aya's personality found it funny that two retirees continued to prowl the night, dispensing justice to the dark beasts around them. But, it wasn't like Aya would ever say any of this. Yohji knew he'd never get an answer from Aya -- another thing that hadn't changed over the years. And, when it got right down to it, Yohji realized he was kind of glad Aya hadn't changed all that much. Sure, in some ways, it made him sad. But, at the same time, if Aya wasn't like this … well, he wouldn't be "Aya". Somehow, that thought fell right into place in Yohji's mind. It made perfect sense, although he knew he'd never be able to explain it, if pressed.

They had almost reached the elevators when Aya commented, "You're not fooling anyone, you know. Everyone knows those aren't vitamins. Not the blue pills …"

* * *

Yohji came awake, jerking up into a sitting position and barely managing to stifle a scream of fear. The sheets slid down his torso to pool around his hips. The material felt itchy and rough where it stuck to his sweaty skin. His heart hammered away inside his chest, thudding against his ribcage so hard that it was physically painful. Yohji clutched at the ache, feeling shocked when his fingers found soft gauze bandaging.

"What the hell …?" Yohji muttered.

He struggled to make sense of it, but the images were blurred in his mind. No matter how much he concentrated, everything was a jumble -- sights, sounds, colors, none of which made any sense. He remembered their last mission a few days ago; he remembered ending up inside a deserted building, the burning sear of pain slashing across his chest, the fear-filled sound of Aya screaming his name, and blackness rushing over him. Then, there was the other stuff -- staring at a wrinkled, old man in the mirror and realizing it was his own reflection, looking up to find a much older version of Aya standing in his doorway, the baldness, and, even worse, those little blue "vitamins" he had been popping.

Yohji fought back the panic-tinged fuzziness that seemed to be eating away at his brain. He forced the whirl of memories down into some kind of manageable order and willed his breathing and heartbeat to slow. Once he calmed a bit, he realized he was home, in his own room above the Koneko. He had never been so glad to see the piles of dirty clothes strewn around the floor, or the empty liquor bottles and overflowing ashtrays lining the top of his dresser. Yeah, the place was a horrific mess, but it was his horrific mess, and it told Yohji everything was right with the world. Or, as right as things got, when you were Weiss.

Yohji laughed under his breath and ran his hands over his face and head, feeling almost giddy when his fingers tangled in shoulder-length, sweat-soaked hair. A dream. It had all been a dream. He should have known that, from the start. The whole thing was just too damn weird -- him and Aya, still working as Weiss even in their old age, still together, after the passage of all that time. As if that would ever happen.

A low moan drew Yohji's attention toward the chair next to his bed. Aya was there, asleep, and it looked as if he had been there for quite some time. It made Yohji comfortable, seeing Aya there. It made him feel safe, almost like coming home after a long, hard day. And, somehow, it just seemed right that things were that way.

"You and me, still together in our old age, huh?" Yohji muttered. "I guess that's not so damn strange. But, the bald thing, and those pills -- that's so not happening. Ever," he said, shuddering at the thought.

**end **


End file.
